As soon as he had left York Place, the King and I went together to inspect it. We were overcome with amazement by the treasures he had accumulated.
Henry’s eyes glistened with acquisitive pleasure, and I remembered how he had taken possession of Hampton Court.
“How did the man gather together so much riches?” he demanded.
“Lord Dacre has an answer to that,” I retorted.
Henry nodded. This time he did not defend Wolsey, and together we went through the rooms gloating over the treasure which was now the King’s.
But in spite of Wolsey’s decline we were no nearer our goal. We continued to be alternately frustrated and hopeful.
Eustace Chapuys had arrived in England to take the place vacated by Mendoza. Like most ambassadors he was a spy for his master. He was clearly very astute and had no doubt been selected with care by the Emperor as a man with those very special qualities needed in a situation such as that which persisted at the Court of England.
Wolsey’s loss of power meant a reshuffle of important positions. Wolsey had been in sole command. Now the King was his own First Minister, the Duke of Norfolk President of the Council, with Suffolk Vice President, and Sir Thomas More Lord Chancellor. The King announced that he intended to rule with Parliament to advise him.
It was turning out in the way which the Dukes of Norfolk and Suf-folk had wished, though they would have preferred to impeach Wolsey and send him to trial for High Treason. The Commons were less vindictive, largely because of a certain Thomas Cromwell who was vehement in his support of the Cardinal.
I think that was the first time the King noticed Cromwell. He was a man of very humble beginnings, the son of a blacksmith who must have been a very energetic man as he was also a fuller and a shearer of sheep, besides keeping a hostelry and a brewhouse. Thomas Cromwell was to play a big part in our story, and I learned a good deal about him later.
He had been wild in his youth and had even spent a time in prison— though I did not know this at the time. It is only when people attain power that there is an interest in their origins, and if they are in any way disreputable, this fact is triumphantly brought to light and even exaggerated. After serving his sentence he went abroad and was in the French army for a while. Then he returned to England and married the daughter of a shearman determined, some said, to remind everyone of his beginnings. He became a successful businessman and moneylender; he was clever, shrewd, quick-witted and witty, and in due course he was noticed by Wolsey, who liked to recruit clever people to his service. There was no doubt of Cromwell’s cleverness, and Wolsey was quick to make use of it, rewarding him and teaching him a great deal—for which Cromwell was grateful.
He became—doubtless through Wolsey’s influence—member of Parliament for Taunton; thus, when Wolsey’s case was brought forward, he was present in the House and he defended his old master with courage and determination to prove him innocent and avoid the accusation of traitor.
Whether he saw his own ambitions—which depended so much on Wolsey’s favor—fading, or whether he acted out of loyalty to his old patron, I was not sure. But with everyone ready to attack the fallen man, his action was a brave one.
The King noticed it and approved. I think Henry had decided he was going to pardon Wolsey whatever verdict was reached. But it was Cromwell’s speech which decided the Commons’ vote against impeachment.
So there was Wolsey—a broken man, robbed of almost all his vast possessions, but still free.
In spite of the fact that he had been my enemy and was no longer in a position to harm me, the situation had changed little.
It was true that I was at Court, where I lived in great state. I had my dressmakers working for me; I had the most exquisite materials sent to me by the leading mercers; my clothes, designed by myself, were a legend; but I had to keep changing the fashion because I was imitated to such an extent that, if I appeared in a new style of gown, a week later most of the ladies at Court would be wearing a similar one.
People paid homage to me. I was the acknowledged queen of the Court. But I was not Queen of England, and Katharine was there, a shadowy third to spoil my pleasure.
Moreover the strain of holding Henry off was great. I was in a state of bitter uncertainty as to whether or not it would be better to give way, fearful that if I did he might come the conclusion that Anne Boleyn was just like any other woman in the dark, and if I did not, would he grow tired of waiting? How long could I keep him at bay? I allowed certain intimate caresses. I was torn between my love of adulation and my fear of losing it. Of course I knew that those who flattered me today would be the first to attack me if I were brought low. I should have looked upon Wolsey’s case as an example, but I am afraid I did not think of him very much now that he was out of my way. Most of the time I was too sure of myself, possessed as I was of that mysterious allure, the essence of which was my aloofness—so different from my sister Mary. I was a heedless girl in those days—but all the same I was becoming aware of the passing of time.
Another year was almost over and I was no nearer to becoming Queen in reality than I had been four years ago.
I had always been of a quick temper. My stepmother had constantly told me to guard it—especially in my precarious position. But when it flared up, I could not restrain it; and I was at this time under great pressure.
Henry had for some time given up sleeping in Katharine’s bed. He had declared that, as he believed he was not really married to her, cohabitation must cease. His conscience would not allow him to continue to sleep with her, as it would be committing a sin. For some time they had occupied the big state bed, she at one end, he at the other—so he told me—but now he thought it wise that they should not share that bed.
I remember that November day—a dreary day with a heavy mist which seeped into the room and somehow added to my depression and the feeling that this matter would not be resolved.
Royalty is rarely ever alone, and there is always someone in attendance to report what is done and said. Only in bed at night do they have any sort of privacy, and then there are servants who, though they are not actually present, are aware of what is going on.
Henry had dined with Katharine and came to me afterward. He was looking glum and I asked him what ailed him.
“Katharine!” he said. “How that woman plagues me! Now she is reproaching me because I do not share her bed.”
“So … she misses you,” I said.
“By God’s Holy Mother, she thinks of what she calls her rights. I told her that I was not her legal husband and therefore I cannot share her bed.”
“And she, being such a pious lady, doubtless agreed with you.”
“She would not leave it at that. She accused me of not daring to have the case tried before an unprejudiced court. She said that, for every one I could find to decide in my favor, she would find a thousand to declare that our marriage was a good one and indissoluble.”
I was amazed and apprehensive that he had allowed the discussion to go so far with her. I thought: We shall never defeat that woman. She will always win. And how could he allow her to speak to him thus? It showed that in spite of everything he was still in awe of her.
“I can see,” I said, “that she will always better you in argument. One day you will listen to her reasoning and cast me off.”
“Never,” he declared vehemently.
“I have waited for so long,” I said. “I might have been married by now. I might have had children, which is the greatest consolation in the world. But alas, farewell to my time and my youth… spent to no purpose.”
I stood up then and left.
Unfortunately one of Chapuys’s spies overheard the scene between us and reported it to that cynical man, who in turn at once sent an account of it to his master.
I believe at that time they all thought that Henry would soon grow weary of the matter—as I so clearly was.
My words had had a particular effect on Henry, especially my reference t
o marriage. He knew that there were many men at Court who wanted to marry me. In fact, I thought sometimes that the King’s unswerving devotion to me was fostered by the effect he saw I had on other men at Court. He was terrified of losing me. The desire for the divorce had become a passion with him—whether entirely due to his desire for me or because of that obstinacy in his nature which would not be denied, I was not sure. But his determination was fierce.
To placate me, he gave my father the title of Earl of Wiltshire. Thus George became Lord Rochford, and I was the Lady Anne Rochford. It increased our status considerably.
This was a settlement of that old matter concerning Piers Butler which was to have been brought about by my marriage to James Butler and which had so suddenly—seemingly without reason—been broken off. As a result, for years there had been a dispute about the earldom between Piers Butler and my father. Henry had kept the matter in abeyance. He did not want to offend me by disappointing my father of his hopes; but on the other hand Piers Butler was very useful to him in Ireland. Now Henry made the sudden decision that my father should have the title. Butler was given certain lands in Ireland to console him; and the matter was peacefully settled, for over in remote Ireland Piers Butler would know how important the Boleyns had become to the King.
Looking back over that year, I had to admit I had my triumphs—the chief of which had been the downfall of Wolsey. Campeggio had left, but before he went he had been submitted to the indignity of having his luggage searched, which upset him greatly, though nothing was found in his bags which should not lawfully be there. He complained bitterly to the King that this was a violation of his privilege as an ambassador. The King retorted sharply that there was no breach of etiquette on our part. The Cardinal had ceased to be a legate when he had revoked the case. However, he did think it wise to send an apology, which placated Campeggio.
Another uneasy year had started.
In January my father was created Lord Privy Seal. The King said to me: “I think it would be a good idea to send your father to the Emperor. None knows the case better than he, and he has been a very successful ambassador on other occasions.”
I agreed. We must have been foolish to have acted in such a way. My father was the last person we should have sent. Perhaps we were getting so frantic that we did not pay enough attention to our actions.
However, we soon learned our mistake.
Sly Chapuys came to see the King. I was present, as I often was, for I saw no reason why I should leave the King when something so vital to me was being discussed.
Chapuys said he had had a special message from the Emperor. Very soon the Earl of Wiltshire would be returning. The Emperor was surprised that His Grace had sent one to plead a cause of which he was an interested party.
“It is my master’s view that the matter should be tried in Rome, without delay.”
Henry was furious; he dismissed Chapuys, who went away with a secret, smug smile on his face which I loathed.
My father returned. He said that, before he had time to deliver his prepared speech, the Emperor had cut him short and declined to listen to “one who had a personal interest in the outcome.”
“So I heard from that snake Chapuys,” cried Henry. “The Emperor is determined to flout me. He wants the case tried in Rome, and we all know what that means.”
The next day there was a communication from the Pope. When Henry read it his face was scarlet, and his eyes blazed with wrath.
“Look at this, I… I am summoned to appear before the Rota in Rome. How dare they! Do they forget who I am?”
“He does it to degrade you,” I said.
Henry read on, his eyes narrowing.
“A pox take the fellow! Do you see what he hints here? I must return to Katharine or run the risk of excommunication.”
I do not think my spirits had ever been so low as they were on that occasion. I saw the fear in Henry’s face. He was still sufficiently under the influence of Rome to dread that threat.
“He would not dare,” I said.
“He has the Emperor behind him.”
“He has always had the Emperor behind him. That is the reason why we are as we are.”
“Excommunication,” murmured Henry. I knew what he was thinking. There had been one occasion when a King of England had suffered this at the hands of a Pope. It had plunged the country into tumult; indeed, it had been one of the most disastrous periods of King John’s disastrous reign. Although the new religion which had been started by men like Martin Luther and William Tyndale was being discussed with interest throughout the country, there were still many who regarded the Pope as the Vicar of Christ and who might well turn against the King if that dreaded sentence were carried out.
I feared that even for me the King would not lay himself open to a threat of excommunication.
I said boldly: “So the Pope is still your master.”
He clenched his fist. “Marry, God forbid it,” he said. “I’ll not endure this. There must be a way out, Anne. I swear I’ll find it.”
I put my arms about his neck and held him closely to me.
“Yes,” I said, “we’ll find a way. You’ll ignore this threat?”
He nodded. “They must come up with an answer soon.”
Would they? I wondered. Was there an answer? My uneasiness was increasing hourly.
For a time no more was said of the possibility of excommunication. It may have been that the Pope’s agents, who were everywhere and would have a good idea of the state of affairs throughout Europe, realized that, if the King were cut off from Rome through excommunication, he might turn to Lutherism. These ideas were spreading with a speed which must have seemed alarming. Books might be banned but that did not prevent their being smuggled into various countries. Although the King had always supported the religion of Rome—was he not Defender of the Faith?— he was adamant about this matter of the divorce, and excommunication in the circumstances could be a double-edged weapon.
As an act of defiance he took me everywhere with him. Sometimes I rode beside him, my horse caparisoned in royal fashion; I even rode pillion with him.
I shall always remember riding through the sullen crowds as we came into London. The people did not cheer him, because I was with him. A man shouted an insult to me and the King ordered his arrest.
He had always enjoyed the people’s acclaim and never lost sight of its importance; he had always gone to great lengths to seek popularity; but at the same time they must know who was master; and if he wanted to ride into his capital with me sharing his horse he would do so.
But he did not like it; nor did I… perhaps less than he did. It struck fear into my heart. He might wake up to the fact that it was I who was turning his people’s love away from him. The years were passing. I was getting older. How long? I continually asked myself. How long?
Wolsey was still a source of anxiety. I could quite well imagine his returning to power. If the King were to repudiate me… then everything would be as it had been before… friendship with the Pope and the Emperor. And the divorce—for Henry was bent on that? As well as his obsession with me was that of getting a male child, which he believed he could never do with Katharine. Then Wolsey would negotiate marriage with some foreign princess, and Anne Boleyn could fend for herself. That was a continual nightmare, even though the King showed no sign of swerving from his devotion to me; but it was there, a niggling thought at the back of my mind even when I was riding in pomp beside him.
I knew that Henry thought of Wolsey often, and he was well aware how I hated and distrusted the Cardinal; but Sir Henry Norris, who was my very good friend, told me that, when Norfolk and Suffolk had taken the Great Seal from Wolsey and found much pleasure in doing so, Wolsey had been ordered to Esher.
He took his barge to Putney, from where he would go by mule to Esher; and thinking of him, the King was overcome with pity, for he knew that Wolsey’s enemies would be assembled to jeer at him on his way.
So the King cal
led Norris to him and gave him a ring which contained a rich ruby. Wolsey would know the ring well, for he had seen it on the King’s finger. Norris was to give the ring to Wolsey and tell him to be of good cheer, and wear it for love of the King.
Norris, telling me, said: “It was a most affecting scene. Wolsey was like a man reprieved from the scaffold. I shall never forget his face when he saw the King’s ring. I do believe he thought that his troubles were over. He believed that, if only he could get to the King, talk to him, explain so much to him, tell him that all his wealth had been accumulated that he might leave it to the King, all would be well.”
Norris went on: “He took a chain and cross from his neck and gave it to me. ‘Take this from my hand, good Norris,’ he said. I was deeply touched,as any man must be to see this once-great man now brought low, and hope come flowing back because of the kindness of the King. The King truly loved Wolsey. So did Comus, Wolsey’s Fool. Comus was one of the best of Fools. One could be sure Wolsey would have the best of everything. He said to me then, ‘Take my Fool and give him into the King’s care. Tell him I loved the man and mayhap that will endear him to the Fool.’ Then he said to Comus, ‘Come here, Fool. You are to have a place at Court.’ And do you know, the man begged Wolsey not to send him. He wanted to stay with his master. He wanted no other … not even the King.”
“You speak most affectingly of him, Sir Henry,” I said.
“It was a scene never to be forgotten. The Fool would not go and Wolsey called several yeomen to drag him away. I felt I was taking away a man in chains. And I said farewell to Wolsey and he went on to Esher.”
“Where I believe he found no warm welcome waiting for him.”
“A cold house without furniture…or plate or goblets. Poor Wolsey! How are the mighty fallen!”
And, I thought, so must he remain.
That Christmas the Cardinal was very ill.
I remember the news being brought to Henry when I was with him. Norris told him and I saw the concern in the King’s face. Perhaps he felt a twinge of that conscience which was ever ready to be aroused—though usually at his bidding. However, this was a genuine twinge.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 04] Page 31